


The war we wage

by patchesthefool



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Daemons, F/M, Multi, Original daemon characters - Freeform, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Some worldbuilding and lore adjustments, Stark family feels, Usual asoiaf warnings apply, various povs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-06 19:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19069561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchesthefool/pseuds/patchesthefool
Summary: “...ultimately the battle between good and evil is weighed within the individual human heart.” - GRRMWhy did the gods give us daemons? To comfort us when we are at our most lonely, to give us warning from those we mustn't trust? I think it's best we don't understand them. Some things shouldn't be comprehended by man.Jojen Reed brings a dire prophecy for Lord Stark, and Jon Snow's fate lies not at the Wall, but at the Neck. Bran still falls, Lord Stark and his daughters go south with the king, and a storm of fury brews in Westeros.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own or make any profit from this work. This is purely for entertainment purposes. Any quotes or scenes that are recognizable from canon come from the "A song of ice and fire" series by George RR Martin.

**Will & Onion**

 

“I don't like it,” Onion announced to the group at large. His small claws clutched onto Will's fraying coat. “Something,” he sniffed, “Something is wrong. Bad.”

Will bit his lip when Ser Waymar Royce turned in his saddle to stare at him in disdain. “It's true, m'lord. They were all dead. I don't think wildlings did this. It was bloodless.”

The stallion daemon snorted. “They're savages. How can you claim to know their limits? Mayhaps it's a game.”

“Something is wrong,” Cici, Gared's bloodhound daemon, declared ominously. “Something is sour in the air.” She'd lost most of her ear a while back, but her nose was as keen as ever. “We should turn back.” She stopped walking and looked up at Gared, the oldest of their trio.

He grunted. “Cici's nose's never been wrong. If she says something's wrong, then something's wrong.”

Ser Waymar Royce and his stallion, Symon, turned at the same time and managed to portray their disdainful amusement even in the dark. “Does the dark frighten you? Will here says the camp is not far on ahead and we were ordered to track them, so we will. And if they are dead, then we ought to make sure. Besides, if there was no blood, as he says, who's to say they were not asleep?”

“Nothing living lies that still,” Onion protested.

“No blood. No tracks. How are you certain they're dead?” Ser Waymar said slowly as if they were stupid. Symon tossed his mane and stamped an enormous hoof. He let out a breath when Will shivered. “How do you think they would have died, Gared?”

“The cold. There's no fighting it. It just waits until you're done and takes you. I reckon they fell asleep and the cold came to them,” he said gruffly.

Cici nodded. “Nothing takes you like the cold. Peaceful.”

“I'd have thought it was worse,” Symon said to the bloodhound.

Cici flapped one ear. “Gared and I have had a taste of it before, my Lord.”

“The Wall was weeping; they couldn't have simply frozen, especially not since the wildlings are born to worse cold,” Ser Waymar said.

“I doubt it was the cold that did it. A trap, perhaps? A ruse?” Symon said. The warhorse turned to Will. “Lead us to them.”

Will shivered again. Onion clung to him and his little face stuck near his ear. “We shouldn't go back,” the weasel whispered. Will agreed, but led Gared and Ser Waymar anyway.

Cici put her nose to the ground and scented it. “Sour, I tell you. The air is sour.”

“We should make a torch. A fire. It'll keep away bears and direwolves and...and other things...” Gared said. His hands jerked on the reins of his uneasy garron. Cici moved away from its hooves when it stepped sideways.

Ser Waymar's mouth became a hard line. “No fire. Keep moving.”

There was a charged moment, and Onion's claws pierced Will's skin. He worried one of the others would go for their sword. The old bloodhound's head lowered and her lip curled into a snarl and the stallion tossed his head.

“No fire,” Gared muttered. The moment passed and Cici slumped.

At the muddied ridge, Will slipped from his garron and climbed slowly, surely, careful not to make a sound. He heard Ser Waymar follow him, his boots crunching in the snow.

Onion made a strangled noise at his ear when he crawled to the top of the ridge and lay on his belly. “No. No, no, no, no, no,” the weasel chanted.

Moonlight illuminated the clearing. The bodies were gone.

No sign of them at all.

“Your dead men seemed to have wandered away,” Ser Waymar said. “Nothing for it, then. Up the tree you go. I won't be returning to the Castle with my first ranging a failure. Up.” He raised his brows. His handsome noble face was shrouded by shadow and moonlight, dividing it in two.

Will hesitated, then slid his knife free and found a tree to climb. He looked down at the discarded weapons of the camp.

Onion shivered and whimpered prayers to gods they didn't believe in while Will climbed.

A snap of a branch in the distance made him wobble precariously.

“Who goes there? Gared? Cici? Symon where did they run off to?” the lordling asked.

“She smelled something over in the brush. Probably a dead rabbit.” Will heard the stallion say. “I saw her eat a leather shoe once, you know.”

From his vantage point, he saw movement in the distance. A white form moved in the shadows of the dead trees, flashing across the snow. Onion hissed and all his scraggly fur raised to its ends. “Did you see that?”

Will nodded numbly and searched, but didn't see anything else.

“Can you see anything?” Ser Waymar called up. “Why is it getting colder?”

“The old man and the bitch, do you see them?” Symon whinnied.

“No,” whispered Onion. “No. No. Will, Will.” His teeth chattered.

Will saw it too. A tall thing, pale as moonlight with white hair. The shadows around it rippled in false colors, shifting with each step it took towards the lordling.

An Other. He knew it. He remembered the stories he once had thought were stories to tell to frightened children, but since coming to the Night's Watch and going beyond the Wall, he believed in the stories. In all of them. There was wisdom in children's stories.

He meant to call out a warning, but his tongue failed him, and Onion slapped a small paw over his mouth. “No,” Onion whimpered. “No.” It was all he could say anymore.

“Come no farther,” Ser Waymar warned, but his voice cracked even as he drew his blade. Symon whinnied and stomped, kicking, but he was still at the bottom of the ridge.

The Other held a longsword of crystal, shining and terrible.

Royce said something and the two clashed. Symon, unable to trek up the slick ridge brayed challenges to the Other while Royce danced with him. Steel and crystal flashed, once, twice, thrice and yet more pale things emerged from the woods. They brought the cold with them, and Will trembled, and Onion trembled and together, they watched.

A parry came too late and when the blades struck again, Ser Waymar's shattered. He screamed and fell to his knees, and not too far away, Symon screamed too.

Blood fell from his face, and the Others closed in leisurely.

Symon screamed again, closer. He had braved the ridge and had slipped and broken his foreleg. The Others ringed around Symon and Ser Waymar, blades lifted.

Will turned away at the harsh wet sounds. For a long time, he stayed in the tree with Onion clinging to him. Far off, he heard the baying of a hound and knew. Cici, Gared.

He slid down slowly, to Royce's body and couldn't look away from the boy. He'd been slaughtered worse than a winter hog. His wounds wept into the snow. Symon had made it to the top of the ridge, a desperate bid to help his other half. Bone stuck out of his foreleg and his ribs were slick with blood. A slice carved a toothless smile across his strong neck.

Onion shuddered. “Why hasn't he gone?”

Will swallowed and shook his head. He knelt and picked up the broken sword. It would be his proof to take to Castle Black. He couldn't stay to look for Cici and Gared when they probably weren't even alive anymore.

He stood and walked but two steps when he heard a horse snort. “Run,” Onion hissed, biting at his ear.

Symon was standing, heedless of his ruined leg. His eyes were blue. Ser Waymar was on his feet as well, one eye blinded, the other burning the same ice blue.

“Run!” Onion yelled in his ear.

Will dropped the broken blade and ran.

 

  
**Eddard**

 

 

Frost huffed at Ned's side. The dark grey wolf was looking off in the distance, in the direction of the children playing in the godswood. Ned lay a hand on the ruff of his neck. “That boy,” Frost said, “I can't wait for his daemon to settle.”

Ned sighed. It would make things easier once the wolf by Jon's side stayed a wolf, and no longer sprouted the odd horn or suddenly grew more teeth than a wolf should have. It raised questions. Cat had already pointed them out; it had only taken a few slips of the boy's daemon for her to bring her suspicions to him. She hadn't been completely right, but she hadn't been completely wrong. She'd guessed enough that he'd had to swear her to secrecy and confess. After all, there was only one family in all of Westeros whose daemon had ever manifested as a dragon, even if some of them had been a deformed chimera. Ned counted himself lucky that Ghost hadn't turned into a massive scaled beast and that his slips were contained to an odd growth that would leave within a matter of minutes or at the most a day.

He was still a strange daemon, besides. Silent with red eyes and white fur. Northern colors. The colors of snow and blood, the color of weirwood trees.

As of now, Ghost loped along the other children's daemons with two short curving horns framing the lower half of his jaw. Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggydog, and Nymeria yapped and barked and cajoled loudly. Ghost was still silent. Mute.

“Game! Play!” Rickon clapped his hands as he demanded his older siblings to entertain him. It wasn't often Robb and Jon played with their younger siblings, as grown as they were.

Jon picked up a stick and pointed it in Robb's direction, shouting the name of his chosen hero - “I'm Aemon the Dragonknight!”

“I'm the Winged Knight!” Robb shouted back.

“I want to be Nymeria!” Arya shouted. With Nymeria the wolf at her side who barked, “Who else would you be?”

Bran's and Rickon's shouts were lost in the ensuing argument. Jon inevitably took Arya's side and Theon, his ward, agreed with Robb that she was entirely too small to play with a 'sword'. Theon's seabird called from above, throwing his head back. “Too small,” he teased, “Too small!”

Nymeria snapped her teeth up at him.

Shaggydog and Summer rolled on the leaf-covered floor.

“He's slipping again,” a terse voice said from his side. Ned turned to find his wife staring at the children with her hands wringing. Her otter daemon watched them with black eyes.

“He can't help it, Cat.” She wasn't wrong to worry, but he was weary of this.

“Maybe not, but the slips are noticeable. How lucky will we continue to be? What if someone notices?” Bell wrung her paws. Her whiskered face turned up to Ned, long body lifting itself to balance on her back legs and tail. Her dark coat was freshly damp from a swim. “It wasn't obvious before, but now?”

Frost growled once, briefly. His ears flattened. “The boy isn't a dragon.” They denied the obvious. Ghost was still unsettled, far beyond the typical age of a daemon to be so.

Bell squeaked, tweaking her black nose. “He doesn't need to have wings to rouse suspicion. Already talk of who his mother is has found its way to the lips of smallfolk. One swears they caught sight of scales.”

“Ashara Dayne's daemon was a hummingbird,” Cat said. She hadn't looked away from Jon or Ghost. “Even rumors that had whispered of a guess as to who his mother was no longer assume it was her; they see scales and horns instead of feathers.”

“Not all daemons echo their parents,” Ned snapped. Cat's lips thinned. Bell frowned up at him. He wiped a hand down his face. “Cat, please.”

She faced him with those Tully blue eyes. “Ned, you know that he can't stay here.”

His jaw set. “How long will I be punished for this? It was the only way I could keep him safe.”  _From_   _Robert_ , he didn't add.

She jerked back as if he'd slapped her. “Ned Stark,” she began dangerously, “This has nothing to do with the lie you've fed me throughout the years, or the humiliation I've suffered for it. That boy is  _dangerous_. He doesn't need to mean to be dangerous; but he is the son of a dragon, with a daemon that continues slipping even after he's reached a settling age. My children, your children, love him. I know this. But King Robert's fury knows no limit when it comes to Targaryen blood.” She stepped closer and took hold of his collar, desperation in her voice. “He took the throne with the bodies of children laid bare before him and said nothing. Even for the brother he chose, what would his reaction be if word reached his ears about a possible dragon left in his lands?”

“What would you have me do, Cat?” he asked quietly.

Her hands shook. “Send him away. Send him away before the wolf grows wings, Ned.”

His eyes shut. Frost let out a long sigh. “Cat, where could the boy go? We're all he has. The lone wolf dies, the pack survives,” Frost said.

“I don't want the boy to suffer. I don't want to break my children's hearts, but you of all people know of the fury of House Baratheon – your friend. I don't want the storm to break Winterfell. I choose my family, Ned. I choose my children.”

Bell placed a small paw on Ned's leg. “The Night's Watch? The boy spoke of it before, and was keen to ask Benjen to take him with him.”

“No. The Night's Watch is not for him,” Ned said flatly. He couldn't be ashamed of him, even if the secret shamed Jon either way, although it was inevitable that he had to leave Winterfell. But the Night's Watch, as though he were guilty of something? No. He was a good lad; capable, intelligent, dutiful, even if he could be solemn, and had that willfulness Lyanna had possessed. Even if sometimes his temper, when roused, was fire instead of ice.

Bell's dewy eyes shined. “It would protect all of us. It isn't his fault, but whispers have a way of making their way to the capitol. He can't help what he is, but the longer this goes on, the more danger we're in. The king could not touch him in the Night's Watch. He would be far away from any who might care what his daemon looks like.”

“Please, Ned. He can't stay.” Cat held his cheek in her palm. Her eyes were wet but her mouth was set. Ned finally gave a single nod.

Frost put his nose to Bell's belly and grunted when she rubbed his ear.

“My Lord! My Lord,” Ser Rodrik puffed as he lurched towards them. A red rooster paced after him, crowing “My Lord Stark!”

“Ser Rodrik,” Ned greeted.

“My Lord, my Lady. A patrol found a deserter. They have him at the nearby holdfast.” His features took on a grim turn. “Night's Watch didn't even know he'd abandoned them; a traveling knight caught him stealing food and demanded to know where he'd come from. The knight kindly escorted him to the holdfast to wait for the king's justice.”

The rooster, Donnel, at his feet scratched in the dirt. “He's telling all sorts of tales about the dead and winter,” the rooster croaked.

Frost grunted. “The dead?”

Donnel cocked his head. Rodrik spoke: “White walkers. He was babbling like a fool about white walkers, of all things. He said he had to run to warn us of what was coming.”

Frost's ears went back. “The desperate ramblings of a coward.”

Ned gave Cat a look. “A moment, Ser Rodrik.” He stopped and regarded the playing children. Arya and Rickon were now roughhousing while Bran narrated some great battle being waged below his perch on a branch. Robb and Jon had stopped their indulgent play for the young ones, and now lazily fenced while Theon called out mistakes and jeers. “Robb, Jon, Theon! Come.” His eyes slid to Bran who looked on curiously. “Bran, you as well.”

Cat inhaled swiftly. “He's too young for that.”

“He's a Stark. If you execute a man, you must look him in the eye and hear his last words before you swing the sword. He needs to grow up sometime, Cat.” He squeezed her arm gently. “I was younger than Bran when I first watched.”

Bell squeaked at their feet. “He's only a boy. Our little climber.”

“Boys have to become men someday,” Frost said.

 

 

**Frost**

 

 

While Ned rode ahead, Bran and Jory at his side with Robb and Theon behind them, Frost held back. He trotted alongside Ghost and Jon's horse. “How long has he been like this?” he asked.

Jon looked down at Ghost. “This morning. He's still doing it more than we thought he would.”

“Hm.” The boy's daemon was covered in white fur, but the horns that had sprouted from beneath his thick coat were light gray, cracked and scaled, like old bone. “Does it happen more than it used to?” Frost prayed to the old gods that wasn't so. Let there be enough wolf to suppress the dragon, for all their sakes.

“I don't know,” came Jon's quiet reply.

Frost looked up at his face. He softened. “Sometimes it takes longer for people to settle in.” The boy and his daemon looked ashamed. “When your father was young, did you know I was a lamb for a time?”

Jon laughed. The boy laughed too rarely, Frost thought. Sometimes he was too much like Ned, perhaps even too much like his other father. “A lamb?” Jon asked.

“A short while. Most people's daemons take some time to settle. The ones that don't...” Frost trailed off. “Those are the ones that often don't live long. Valiant never changed, your Uncle Brandon's daemon. He'd always been a wolf. Too much wolfsblood in him, I think. He was always too wild.” Thinking of them was difficult even now. He hadn't seen their end, but the tale was gruesome enough, and it inevitably led him down the path of a lonely tower and the smell of winter roses.

“Is it true then?” Jon asked.

“Is what? Dying young if your daemon doesn't change? Who's to say. Very few Westerosi people ever have a daemon that stays the same. The ones that had made it a habit for a time were the Targaryens.”

“The dragons,” he breathed.

Frost grimaced. “Aye. Dragons.”

“The dragons kept getting smaller, after Aegon conquered Westeros. There weren't any as big as Balerion,” Jon pressed. Ghost's ears perked up. Both begged without speaking.

“None were so big as the dragons that had first arrived, and eventually they died out. The last ones were as small as dogs, twisted little things that couldn't fly and barely walked. When the Targaryens lost their dragons, they had no more daemons at all.” Frost shivered at the thought of a daemon-less person. Even the twisted abominations had been better than none at all.

“Why do you suppose that is, Frost?”

“Some say it is because they bred with one another too much. Sister to brother to sister to brother for generations. Some maesters proposed that it killed something in them. Others say it was because there wasn't enough magic in the world. Westeros doesn't have enough of it and Valyria choked on it.”

“What do you think?” he pressed.

They were coming up to the deserter. He could smell his fear. “I don't think it matters what I think. It happened and now all the dragons are gone.” He lengthened his strides while Ned swung himself down. He looked at his daemon, then at Jon and Ghost.

Robb and Jon filed in behind Bran, pushing him to the front. Theon's bird clacked his beak at the younger boy. “If you faint, at least you have your pony to carry you back,” Theon teased.

Robb shoved Theon's shoulder in retaliation. “Leave him be, Greyjoy.”

Jon gripped Bran's shoulder tightly. “Don't look away. Father will know.”

Bran nodded, lips white. Summer leaned her head into Bran's hand and she looked up at him. “We'll be alright,” Summer said calmly. 

Frost stared the weasel daemon down and bared his teeth. “Do you know what you are charged with?” Ned asked the deserter.

“Yes. Being a coward.” He licked his lips. “I deserve it for abandoning my post and not warning the others but – but please. I swear it true. I saw them.”

“Who?” Ned demanded.

“The Others. I saw them.”

“Stop spinning tales you coward.” Jory scowled down at him. Willam, a great brown dog daemon with long fur, growled.

“It's true.” His eyes were wide and filled with fear. At Ned's side, Frost shifted in place. “They tore them apart. They came out of the woods. We was looking for wildlings thinking maybe they was killing us off one at a time but – it was them. They left them all scattered in pieces. All of them. I left. I left them all. It's true.”

Frost's ears went back.

The weasel daemon squirmed. “They had blue eyes. Blue as ice and their skin was white as snow, so thin you could see the bone and meat under it.” The weasel panted and shivered against the deserter.

“You deserted your post,” Ned said. At his side, Frost was still silent. “The punishment is execution, do you understand?”

“I do. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's true,” he babbled.

“Theon, bring me Ice. What's your name?”

“Will. It's Will.”

Theon hefted the greatsword and offered it hilt first. Ned slid it out of its sheath and stepped to loom over the deserter. “Do you have any last words?”

The Night's Watch brother looked up at him but he didn't see him. “It's true.”

Jory scoffed.

“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”

The sword swung and Will was dead. His head rolled and the daemon at his side crumbled into dust.

Jon shook Bran's shoulder. “Good.”

Bran exhaled shakily. Summer leaned into him. “I didn't like that,” the wolf said.

“Some lord you'll be,” Quellon mocked. Theon laughed quietly with his daemon.

Robb turned on Theon with a thunderous expression. “Enough.” Grey Wind snarled at Quellon and the bird squawked.

Frost turned from the boys and their daemons before looking down at the body. “He wasn't lying.”

“He was talking about the dead rising up and killing people. For all we know, he killed them himself and he lost his mind,” Ned said.

“It happens. Out there in the Great North, beyond the Wall. Sometimes men just lose themselves,” Jory added.

“Maybe,” Frost admitted. “Mad or not, he believed it enough to accept judgment for running.”

“Perhaps the guilt was too much,” Jory said.

Ned met Frost's eyes. “I'll send word to my brother at the Wall. He'll need to know about the deserter anyway.” Frost dipped his head in acknowledgment.

Above them, a crow called.

 

 

**Catelyn & Bell**

 

 

Bell stared at the letter. “This day is cursed,” she said. Her whiskers twitched.

Catelyn had the same thought. She'd had to confront Ned about the boy; it was only pragmatic. The humiliation still stung, even if it was now a confirmed falsehood, but the lie still stuck to her palate like a bite of rotten fruit. Her loathing and pity had reached a plateau of indifferent discontent towards Jon Snow.

The pity remained, even if she couldn't bring herself to bare it to anyone but Bell.

And now, after upsetting Ned, and with the deserter, there was more sorrow. Maester Luwin had given his condolences with Ferth, his raven daemon, cooing sympathetically.

Should she enter the godswood, bringing grief again? She couldn't help but hesitate to do so on the grounds of old northern gods she still didn't understand. Should she wait and allow him his peace in the woods for a short time?

Bell was already rolling the letter up. “We must, Cat. He needs to know he's dead.” She deflated. “It'll break their hearts.”

Catelyn sighed and took the letter from the otter. “A deserter from the Watch talking about the Others, Jon Arryn dead, and now the king wishes to visit.” She rubbed her forehead. “If only this day would end.”

“Is it not strange, Cat,” Bell said slowly, one paw laying on the other letter that had arrived. “That the crannogmen would venture out now?”

“They are reclusive, but Howland Reed is a dear friend of Ned. They know the king.” It was strange, though. It truly was. “Perhaps it is a chance to relive their glory days.”

Bell scoffed and waved a paw at her. "Ned and Howland don't care about glory; only the king does. Him and that bloody boar of his.”

Catelyn laid a hand on Bell's rich, fine coat and stroked down her back. The otter sighed and nibbled at her wrist. “I suppose there's no waiting.”

“Life goes on,” Bell declared piteously. She gave the letter a guilty look. “But not for Jon Arryn.”

They found Ned alone cleaning and sharpening Ice. He sat beside the pool and cleaned Ice slowly. Frost was laying beside his feet, blue eyes shut. His ear flicked. Bell broke pace with Catelyn to curl up beside Frost's jaw, nuzzling him.

Ned looked up. His gaze was soft, despite the somber set of his expression. “Cat?”

Suddenly this news was so much darker. “Oh, love.” Catelyn twisted the letter in her hands before handing it over to him. “I'm so sorry, love. It's Jon Arryn, he's dead.”

Ned and Frost froze. “Jon Arryn...how?”

“A fever took him, and milk of the poppy could only do so much,” she said. She laid a hand on his shoulder and let it journey to his arm. “And there is yet more news: the king rides to Winterfell to mourn with you. The company he brings numbers at least a hundred knights, plus freeriders, select members of the Court, and his wife and children.”

Ned blew out a long breath and scrubbed his face. “He's already left?” He huffed and a smile broke out over his face. Catelyn wished she could return it, but the issue of Jon Snow and his unsettled daemon loomed over them, and with the king apparently already en route, it had the potential for disaster.

Bell squeaked at Catelyn as she nestled into Frost's fur, echoing her concern.

“How long ago did he leave?” Ned slid Ice into its sheath. “Damn that man. We'll need a proper feast and he'll want to go hunting – and he's bringing his family?”

Catelyn nodded. “The children, Queen Cersei, and the queen's brothers.”

Ned grimaced and Catelyn didn't blame him. There was bad blood between Ned and the Kingslayer, to say nothing of the king's own often vocal feelings about the family he married into.

“Damn it,” Ned said. “Your sister, Cat. Invite her here so she might leave Jon's ghost for a time.”

Catelyn's lips twisted. “I would, but I fear the commotion to come would only upset her further. I fear Robin isn't doing well, either. Sickness or grief, I don't know. He's always been a sickly boy. I wish she'd go to Riverrun, at least.”

Ned nodded thoughtfully. “You might still offer, so she knows she's welcome in Winterfell.”

Cat nodded. “And – a strange thing, honestly, but Lord Reed wrote. He's coming to Winterfell.”

Ned stared up at her and Catelyn imagined she could see fear flash in his eyes. “Did he say why?”

“To mourn, the letter said. And to seek you out.” She held out the tiny note Howland Reed had sent. “I hadn't realized he'd been close to Lord Arryn.”

Ned scanned the note over and over. Frost finally sat up, away from Bell. “He hadn't been.”

“He knows of the boy's parentage, doesn't he?” Bell prompted.

Ned looked up sharply. “Yes.”

“Perhaps with the king having left the capital...he is concerned,” Bell hazarded.

Frost grunted. “Albar won't notice the boy. Neither will Robert. They've come to feast, drink, and carry off some woman, and talk about the Rebellion.”

Bell's whiskers twitched. Cat frowned. “We don't know what he will or won't notice. It seems, possibly, that Lord Reed knows that and is trying to get here before the king comes.”

Frost looked away and Ned's eyes dropped to the pool. “I'll have to write Ben. He'll want to be here as well.”

“We still have yet to inform him about the deserter,” Frost said.

Cat and Bell shared a glance. Trouble was brewing. Dark news hadn't stopped arriving throughout the day and the air felt infused with the danger of a coming storm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be obvious changes, and POVs that I won't be exploring at all since the story will be focusing more on Jon and Sansa, and the Starks (and the Starks as a whole esp in the beginning). Not to say the other POVs won't make an appearance, but they certainly won't be nearly as prevalent.  
> The first couple chapters are following the book (very obviously in this chapter and the next, with some text and situations taken directly from A Game of Thrones), with minor adjustments and a basic introduction to daemons and how they inhabit the world of asoiaf.  
>    
> Notes of daemons:  
> Some of the House sigils here follow along the House Founders' daemons, and because all the Stark children do receive a direwolf, I'll be following that since it was done for a reason, and adding on another magical animal companion seems redundant. Not all daemons follow in the spirit of the sigils, in part for my own peace of mind (lol). And of course, some were a one off daemon manifestation of a House founder that never happened again (looking at you, House Brax).
> 
> This isn't an HDM/ASOIAF crossover, I should point out; this is a canon divergent ASOIAF with daemons that differ in some ways so they can't quite be considered the same as they are in HDM. There will be a few GOT show shortcuts, but those will be minor and few and far between. The kids will be aged up, too.


	2. chapter one

**Sansa & Lady**

  


The sun was shining the day the king and the accompanying knights, ladies, maids, and other assorted riders came in a deluge through Winterfell's gates. The wind was still bitterly cold as it had been for the past several days. There had been rainfall for days as thunder boomed in the distance like a great drum being hit. Sansa was just glad the poor weather had passed, but less glad for the mud it had left in its wake.

Sansa wore her hand stitched gown of dragonflies and flower detail at the hems, a pale green with yellows and blues and pinks to invoke spring. A maid had braided her hair up in a southron style, twinning three simpler braids to fit around her temples to mimic a rose.

She dabbed on a flowery scented oil to her wrists. “Well?” She twirled delicately in her dress. Her silk and furred slippers never even stepped on the hem of her dress.

Lady's tail wagged. “Beautiful,” she declared. The wolf daemon was pleased with her own silk band of sewn flowers Sansa had only finished the previous night, huddled over her work in the light of a small candle. She sat up, pushing her chest out. The flowers hid tiny dragonflies and red ladybugs, in honor of the forms Lady still sometimes shifted to. “I've heard the king and queen may be looking to secure a match for Prince Joffrey.”

Sansa pursed her lips to stop from smiling, but it peeked through anyway, like the sun breaking through clouds. “Oh? Gossiping with Joan and Jeyne again?” Lady gave her an indulgent look. “It would be something out of song, wouldn't it? For the crown prince to wed a northern daughter, take her away to King's Landing.”

“You'd be queen, and have royal children, and I'd have a royal daemon companion.” Lady slipped down from the bed and caught a fold of Sansa's skirt between her teeth gently, tugging it into place. “We'd be so happy.”

“Spices, and sweets, lemon trees, the Sept of Baelor, the Red Keep, ships in the harbor – oh Lady. It would be our song.” She stroked Lady's head. “I've heard that Prince Joffrey's daemon has been settled for a long time. Perhaps...perhaps he'd be ready to be betrothed?”

“They just need to meet us,” Lady insisted. “We've always been good. Is that not what a queen must be?”

Sansa turned to the mirror on her vanity and smoothed her dress down. She could heard the clamor in the yards, and her mother called her name and her siblings'. “Perfect.”

 

 

**Eddard & Frost**

 

 

 _That poor damn horse_ , Frost thought. It sagged beneath the behemoth weight of the king. Behind him came the golden forms of Jaime Lannister, and his dwarf brother Tyrion, and a tall golden-haired boy who was likely the crown prince. Several white cloaks rode in after them.

Beside the king, the giant boar Albar who had once worn heavy plated armor and sharpened iron tips on his tusks, wheezed and snorted. His bristly hide had once boasted largeness attributed to muscle and size, but now he was laden with fat. He no longer struck terror and awe the way he had some years ago.

The king was perfumed, fat, and red-faced from the exertion of climbing down from his horse. A far cry from the man who had been a giant of a man with a giant's strength and had wielded a warhammer Ned knew only he could lift.

“Still sullen as ever, eh, Ned?” the king puffed. Albar snorted wetly again.

Ned knelt and his household followed, Frost dipped his head down until his nose nearly scraped the mud. “Your Grace. Winterfell is yours."

Behind him, yet more people poured in, and a great wheelhouse creaked to a halt. Queen Cersei climbed out of an oaken and gold winged wheelhouse with her children. A fair lioness prowled out behind her with two kittenish forms on her back, alert and standing on all fours as their tiny bodies clung to her fur. Similarly, the prince and princess hid behind their mother's skirts.

The queen approached and Ned kissed her ring, Frost bowed his head before the lioness.

Catelyn introduced the children, although little Arya had somehow found a soldier's leather helm and was wearing it proudly and Nymeria was spotted with dirt. Ned hid his smile and Frost chuckled.

“Alright, Ned enough kneeling. Take me down to the crypts. I have to pay my respects,” the king said.

The queen's lioness regarded them with bright eyes and a great maned lion stood at her shoulder. The queen's protests died in her throat when her twin came to her side. Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, stood beside a lion with a black mane and he tilted a wineskin at Ned before smiling.

Ned and the king went, and Albar spoke to Frost in an overly loud voice. “Not a decent bloody inn in the Neck. And that storm lasted too long, I've never seen so much fucking rain. I'd forgotten that the North is as large as the other Six Kingdoms combined,” Albar complained. “And most of it is empty.”

“Not even a glimpse of the crannogmen,” the king said. “You'd think they would have helped ease the way but I suppose rotting in a swamp is more appealing for the frogs.”

“Howland Reed is traveling this way, though we aren't certain as to when he'll arrive, Your Grace,” Frost said.

The descent down to the crypts grew darker, and the flickering torchlight barely provided enough light. Their boots crunched over decades worth of dust and small stones.

“Is he? Thought he never left his swamps,” the king said.

“He means to pay his respects and mourn Jon Arryn,” Ned recited from the note by memory.

“The Neck was bad enough but then there's _snow_ here. The fuck is snow doing here when it's summer?” Albar swore.

“I prefer the south. The girls are shameless and naked all the time, Ned. They wear things that stick to skin, or wear nothing at all. They walk around bare chested in the streets and swim in the canals. All that heat makes them so sweet.” The king laughed. “You should come south, Ned. Maybe then you won't be so damn miserable. It's all this cold.”

They arrived before the three statues. Rickard Stark, Ned's father, had an iron sword across his lap and Bodkin, his wolf daemon greeted intruders with a stoic stare.

To his right was Brandon Stark who died at twenty and Valiant snarled at his feet, both too young and untamed.

And Lyanna Stark stood, her statue caught in a daydream while Mirabell howled beside her, beautiful and silenced. Sixteen and willful, more than they'd thought, loved by more than she knew. Ned had loved her, and Robert had loved her for she'd one day would have been his bride.

Robert knelt and bowed his head.

A moment passed, Ned stared at Lyanna's face, and Frost stared into Mirabell's. Then the king stood and wiped his cheeks. “She was more beautiful than that.” Albar touched his snout to Mirabell's stone form. The king's shoulders shuddered with the force of his exhale, as though he were reliving the news of her death all over again.

“They don't belong down here in this damp dark,” the boar grumbled.

“They belong on a hill somewhere with flowers and sunlight, so the rain can wash them clean.” Robert nodded. “I wish I'd managed to kill the daemon-less cunt more than once. Really take my time with him.”

“She wanted to come home, Robert,” Ned said. Blood and fever and the smell of winter roses. _Promise me Ned_ , she'd whispered. Mirabell had long since fallen quiet and never even moved when Frost had tried to get her on her feet. “We should return, Your Grace. Your wife will be waiting, she seemed quite tired.”

“The Others take her – and gods damn it Ned don't call me Your Grace. It's all I hear anymore. People seem to have forgotten my name. Robert Baratheon, Demon of the Trident. We were magnificent, weren't we Ned? Now look at us. We've gotten old. But we are still brothers, aren't we? We chose you, Ned. Once and always.” Robert turned and they walked back into the light, away from the long dead.

“I know. What happened to Jon, Robert?” Ned asked. It was difficult to imagine Jon Arryn succumbing to a fever when he hadn't ever seen the man sick in all his time in the Eyrie.

Albar and Frost trotted beside one another, looking united again as they once had been an age ago when they'd charged into battle.

Robert shook his head. “A damn fever, Ned. I've never seen someone die so. We held a tourney for my son's nameday, and then he was sick and a fortnight later he was dead. I thought that man would have lived forever.” He paused. “I loved that old man.”

“We both did. Catelyn worries for her sister, are she and the boy alright? The fever didn't pass on?”

“No – but I think the death might've driven her mad. They went back to the Eyrie but I'd wanted Tywin to foster the boy. Get him away from that mother of his for a time. He can't be a man if he's just raised by women.” Robert's lips twisted. “Ned. I didn't come all this way just to mourn Jon, as much as we loved him.”

Frost shifted uneasily behind them. “Surely you came to bask in our old glory days,” the wolf said.

Albar laughed. “That too, and bask in your northern women, if they aren't frozen on the inside. But it's this most of all: King's Landing is full of liars and fools. We need a good man, a man we can trust like Jon Arryn.”

Ned felt a queasiness invade him. “You can't mean -”

“We need you Ned. We need you both. I can't take it – there's no glory in having a throne. Winning it was the best time of my life, ah, that hammer and I, and Albar outfitted to rip open anyone in his path.” Robert clapped a hand onto Ned's shoulder. “There are nights I can't sleep because all I think about is that damned throne, how uncomfortable it is, and how I hate those dragon fucks for making us go to war with them.”

Ned knelt and felt his knees pop this time. “I'm not worthy of the honor, Your Grace.”

“We're northerners, Your Grace. I'm afraid southron politics are a bit beyond us,” Frost added.

“I'm not honoring you – I need someone to make sure the bloody Seven Kingdoms don't burn down while I eat and fuck my way to my grave. Stand up, Ned. Take it.” Robert held out the pin. “Take it. I need you there, like I needed you at the Trident.”

Ned and Frost stared at the pin. The panic he was feeling surely came from both he and his daemon. They were of a wholly similar mind on this. “Winterfell -”

“You've got a capable lad, Ned. And Cat won't let anything happen to the North. We'll join our families like we were always meant to; my Joff with your Sansa.”

“Sansa is only fourteen, Your Grace.” Ned was surprised. He didn't think he'd even be considering marriage offers for her for at least another year or so. He couldn't help but feel that somehow he'd run out of time.

“She and Lady are too young, yet,” Frost said. “She should stay in the north with her family while she can. Both of them.”

“It's just a betrothal, Ned. Marriage will come later when they're ready, and all girls have to leave eventually. Your Sansa will come to King's Landing with us when we go back. Now get up, take the pin, and tell me yes.”

“I'll have to sleep on it and speak with Catelyn.”

“Sleep on it, speak to your wife, just so long as you come back and tell me yes.”

  


**Jon**

  


The feast was plentiful and featured roasted chicken and geese, pig and salted fish, potatoes and onions and gravy, honeyed cranberries and carrots, fresh bread and summerwine, and more. A celebration for those that had made their arduous journey north. A celebration that implied Jon was not fit for.

He was not allowed to sup with his siblings; they sat near the raised dais that the royal family was seated at as the guests of honor.

The procession of the lords in had been rather dull. The queen was beautiful and her lioness was regal, but there was something unsettling about her green gaze. She never even gave his father a glance when he escorted her to her seat. The lioness snubbed Frost, too. The little prince and princess were nothing special, Jon thought. The prince was soft everywhere and fumbled to take Arya's arm as they walked in. Nymeria looked utterly uninterested in the yellow cat daemon.

Myrcella was pretty enough, but Jon decided she was insipid, from the way she darted glances at Robb as he escorted her. Grey Wind barely noticed the cat attempting to twine around his legs.

Prince Joffrey was a shit. He looked like a younger version of Jaime Lannister, but he was disdainful and his mouth pouted as if he were a child who'd smelled a foul odor. Sansa looked radiant beside him in her high collared dress. Lady was equally resplendent, but the striped hyena that walked alongside her was scowling at the entirety of Winterfell. Jon disliked it. He thought they made a poor pair.

The king was a disappointment. He'd heard stories of the Demon of the Trident, of the warrior his daemon had been, of the warhammer and the tusks. But the king was only a fat man who huffed and puffed his way up the dais before he took a long pull of some wine. His boar was already glutting himself on a pie.

The Lion and the Imp at least were no letdown. Jaime Lannister looked the way a king should look; handsome, dignified, and proud as his lion daemon striding behind him. The Imp was a twisted dwarf, unfortunate looking, though his lion was nearly as big as Jaime's with a striking black mane.

Ghost touched his nose to Jon's ankle after he guzzled another cup of summerwine on the urging of the other rowdy youths beside him.

Jon speared a chicken and let it slide down to rest at Ghost's feet. At least Ghost seemed more settled this day. The scales were only visible beneath his fur in patches. It almost looked like greyscale. He wondered if his mother's traits were peeking through. Perhaps being a bastard meant settling took time. Or maybe Ghost would never settle.

He scratched at a patch on his daemon. The wolf nibbled back. Maester Luwin had remarked how much larger the Stark children's wolves were compared to normal wolf sizes, like Frost or Valiant, or another of the other wolves the Starks had had.

He'd considered that perhaps the direwolf daemon trait was returning to the Starks in strength. Jon liked to think that Ghost too was a direwolf, but he was just slower to settle. He'd never be a Stark, maybe, but if Ghost was one then at least it would be something close.

“What are you doing all the way over here, Jon?” Benjen asked.

Jon looked up happily at his uncle. “Uncle Benjen.”

Ward, the black wolf daemon, wagged his tail and gave Jon a light nudge with his snout. He had a new jagged scar across his snout. “Well?”

“Lady Stark didn't want a bastard so near the royal family. It might insult them.” Jon turned back to his summerwine and concentrated on the full plate in front of him he had yet to touch.

“Ah well. At least you're in merrier company than my brother, it seems.” Benjen slid into the seat next to Jon. Ward snatched a fish from a plate and swallowed it nearly whole, its tail sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Your wolf is still the quiet one of the bunch?”

“He's different. Maester Luwin doesn't think he'll ever talk,” Jon said. Ghost lay his head across Jon's foot. “I don't think he will either.”

“He's a big wolf,” Benjen said. He tore into a crust of bread. “Very big. They all are. Yours and your siblings'.”

“Maester Luwin thinks the Starks might have direwolves coming back.” Jon hunched. “Ghost is just a big wolf. He hasn't settled yet.” He felt that if he spoke his longing aloud, Lady Stark would hear, even from across the room.

“Sometimes it takes time, lad.” Benjen gave him a long look. “Even a daemon doesn't always know themselves right away. The gods do like their games.”

“Uncle Brandon's wolf, Valiant, he never changed. It's what Frost said.” Jon kept his voice low, as though it were a secret he wasn't meant to tell.

His uncle nodded. “He had wolfsblood. I don't know if he ever would have outgrown it.”

Ward sighed. “Valiant was proud and loyal, but perhaps too wild by a half.” His uncle's daemon eyed Ghost, but then saw Frost. “Hm. There really isn't much cheer up there. I think you got lucky, Jon.”

“The queen is angry because the king went into the crypts when she tried to tell him not to,” Jon said quietly. The couple couldn't be more different: the king was laughing and tugging serving maids to him while his boar squealed and stole bites of everything, but the queen and her lioness could have been made of stone for all that they moved.

“You don't miss much, do you Jon?”

Jon swelled with pride and Ghost's tail wagged. “I'm a bastard. We have to notice things around us. And I don't forget anything, ever.” He paused and Ghost urged him on with a quick nip. “Uncle, I want to join the Night's Watch.”

Benjen filled a cup and drank all of it down. He was less cheerful than he had been earlier. “The Night's Watch isn't a knighthood, Jon. It's hard. There is no glory. We will never have a family; no wife, or sons.”

Jon had thought about it for a fortnight, longer than that truth be told, but he gave it more serious consideration after the deserter had shown up with fear in his eyes. There was a need out there, even for bastards. A kind of honor he could earn. Ghost was in agreement; they couldn't stay at Winterfell forever, after all.

“I'm sixteen, a man grown. I want this, Uncle. A bastard can have honor too,” Jon said. “I don't need to have a family.”

Benjen shook his head. “ _Almost_ a man grown. Listen to me Jon. You are barely yet a man, the Wall isn't going anywhere. Neither is the Night's Watch. You have time to think it over and I am telling you, that you should.”

“But -”

“Think it over, lad.” He squeezed Jon's shoulder. “If you knew what the Night's Watch demanded in payment for a lifetime of service, you'd hesitate.”

“I'm not your son!” Jon said hotly.

“A pity. Ride for the Wall when you've gotten out in the world more, Jon. It'll be there if you ever do decide to later, I guarantee it. Father a few bastards of your own in meantime before you go, though.”

“I'll never father a bastard. _Never_!” he shouted.

It was then, and at the silent urging of Ghost, that he realized the table had fallen silent and was staring at him. He flushed beyond the wine. “I must be excused.”

Jon and Ghost fled outside, where they couldn't see tears welling up in his eyes. He stumbled and nearly fell atop a serving girl, tripped over a rat daemon, and he flushed hotter at the spectacle he was making of himself in trying to leave the one he'd made earlier.

The yard was quiet. He picked up a training sword, dull and harmless, and hacked angrily at a dummy. The night was crisp and the air smelled fresh like pine and dirt and the distant smell of muddy snow. Ghost launched himself into a bale of hay and rested his head on his paws.

Jon stopped his flurry of attack and regarded his daemon. “Is it wrong to just – just want a place to belong? We don't belong here. It isn't fair.” He tossed the sword away. The ground tilted and he swayed. He'd had too much wine. He sat down and held his head in his hands. Bastards didn't belong anywhere, and Jon all the more so for his daemon was an albino wolf that still couldn't settle though he was past the normal age for it.

A low voice laughed from the darkness and Ghost sprung up. Jon jerked and nearly toppled over.

A pair of yellow eyes regarded them from beyond the singing and laughter and light. A black maned lion stood and sauntered towards them. Tyrion Lannister sat drinking on his back, short legs kicking in the air. “My that was quite the performance.”

Jon felt his flush come back. “How long were you there?”

“Since the beginning. It was getting too hot in there. All that cheeriness in close quarters and no one to laugh at my jokes.” He patted the back of his lion daemon. He was larger up close. The black mane trailed down across his shoulders and spine, dripped down his chest and part of his front legs. Black and gold, like a shadow on the sun.

The lion laughed. It wasn't a booming noise, but a hoarse rasp like the sound of a blade against a whetstone. “Not enough whores, too many fools.”

Tyrion grinned crookedly. “Just so.”

The lion came closer and slipped onto a bench that creaked beneath his weight. “Tell me, boy, bastard boy, why is it you think you don't belong here?”

Ghost's lip curled. Jon's jaw tightened. His fist clenched.

“Did that offend you?” Tyrion asked. “It's what you are. A bastard. Just as I am a dwarf. We don't have much need for tact.”

“I'm Lord Stark's son,” Jon said carefully.

The lion rolled his eyes. “You look every bit the northerner. But you are still a bastard; it is a truth. Your truth. The world's truth.”

“You're a highborn lord, what do you know about being a bastard?” Jon snapped out.

Tyrion tapped his finger against his chin. “A truth is a truth is a truth. If you're offended by it, then the world knows it's a cruel truth. Never let them see you flinch. Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are, because the world won't. Embrace it. If you don't, everyone will eat you alive. I am a dwarf, and all dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes, trueborn or no. You are a bastard, but at least you don't need to be a dwarf.”

The lion stood, stretched, and Tyrion drank. “If you are forever at war with yourself, then it will blind you to the war we all wage against the world.”

“Right you are, Lotho.” Tyrion raised his cup. “I'm out. Best get a pitcher.”

“Let's find you a whore or two, instead,” Lotho the black maned lion bargained.

The dark lion and dwarf stood in the light of the Great Hall for a moment, and Jon thought they almost looked like kings.

  


**Catelyn**

  


Though they'd made love with urgency, Catelyn could tell that the king's visit was weighing Ned down. He paced naked in their chambers. Frost had already growled at Bell when she'd tried to bring up the betrothal.

“I belong in the north, Cat. I always have. Sansa belongs in the north. Starks don't do well in the south.” He ran a hand through his hair.

“A betrothal to the crown prince,” she began but he shook his head.

Bell hissed her annoyance. “It is an ideal match; the queen says the prince is already fond of Sansa, and his daemon had taken to Lady.”

“A striped hyena,” Frost said flatly. “A sniveling scavenger.”

Catelyn put her hand to her forehead and staved off the headache that threatened her. “We do not know why the gods fashioned us so. Even the maesters cannot agree why we have the daemons we do. We can only guess.”

“I do not like either of them,” Ned said.

Catelyn tried not to roll her eyes at his stubbornness. “You don't like them because you don't want Sansa to marry at all. She has to someday, Ned. This is an opportunity for her. She might be queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Besides. The king rode all this way to ask you to be his Hand. He isn't the boyhood friend you remember. Refusing him could be dangerous for the north.”

Ned shook his head. “He's still Robert, even if he is king.”

“Do not refuse him and stoke his ire, Ned,” Catelyn said. The storm that had preceded the royal arrival was still fresh in her memory. Hard, chilled rain and wind the entire time. Harsh enough to freeze new crops overnight and crack trees in half. A fury. “He is bestowing a great honor on you.”

“'The king eats and the hand takes the shit',” Frost said. “It's what he told us. He doesn't think it's an honor.”

Bell scrubbed her cheeks furiously.

A knock came at the door and Ned barked at them to leave.

Maester Luwin spoke through the door, pleading entry. Catelyn draped a robe over her body and answered. The maester held a letter in his hands. “My Lady, a letter came from your sister. I wanted to deliver it to you personally. It is urgent,” the old man whispered. His daemon ruffled his feathers.

“Dire news,” Ferth said. “Please let us in, my Lady.”

  


**Howland**

  


The rain had prevented them from leaving the crannogs sooner, and Howland damned the weather, the gods, fate itself for attempting to intervene. Oslo was annoyed the entire time because the rain meant any ravens about the king's whereabouts were likely lost in the storm, and even he himself wasn't able to fly through it.

Bats, particularly of Oslo's size, weren't typically used as messengers, nevermind a daemon, but time was precious and they'd lost it to the storm.

The swamps had flooded several times over, and lizard-lions, poisoned frogs and all other manner of beasts were driven from the water and into the open. It was too treacherous to leave in such conditions when stabilizing the floating islands had taken precedence. Several smallfolk had vanished and one child had been reported to have drowned.

Meera and Arela were impatient to set off despite it. His daughter had unpacked and packed several times over. Her frogging net, her shield, a knife, and her pronged spear. Arela had stood at the window and stared into the stormy nights. The wolverine's short, stocky form had stalked back and forth for days, betraying Meera's restlessness.

Howland had felt an itching under his skin he hadn't felt since the days of the Rebellion the entire time the storm had refused to leave.

Of them, Jojen was the most serene.

Previous to the storm, his son had spoken to him of a vision, a prophecy, a need, and his daemon had echoed it. They'd dreamed of it together. Winterfell was their destination.

Once upon a time, Howland had kept an oath of secrecy, and remained in the Neck and never left. A tempest had been brewing for years, built on prophecy and madness and an end to all things, and he wanted some peace after the war that had ended with Lyanna's death. It was the one thing he'd had in common with the king. They'd never truly stopped mourning.

The morning he'd woken to find Meera cradling Jojen as he bucked through a green dream, Veremund had been in a silent trance at their side. When the fit was over and Jojen vomited, his crane collapsed and shivered. “Winterfell hides a wolf with scales, but I dreamt of a stag coming with a storm. If he finds out, they'll know his fury,” he'd said. “I dreamt that the wolf went north once and he died. If he dies, we all do.”

Howland hadn't asked how he'd found out the secret. “How would the king know?”

“I dreamt the wolf had scales sometimes, horns other times. I didn't see wings,” Jojen had said. His green eyes were wide and bright. Veremund fluffed her feathers and cradled herself in his lap.

“We don't always see everything the way we should,” she'd said.

“And if the wolf goes north, he dies?” Meera had asked, hand on her brother's hand.

“Blades in the dark, a chant of brothers.” Jojen had stayed his gaze on his father. “We can't let him die. He's too important for what's to come.”

“What's coming?”

“War,” Veremund croaked. “Everywhere.”

And that had been that. The letter had been sent off to Ned, but the weather had pushed them back, and now they were arriving at Winterfell after the king. Jojen had insisted he and Meera go with him, and stay, even if Howland couldn't. “We have to. There's another that will need us,” he'd said. “But Jon Snow needs _you_.”

Green dreams weren't meant to be simply ignored, but yet they had to be heeded cautiously. Jojen was wise beyond his years, and communing with Veremund had made his dreams more frequent, clearer, as he'd gotten older. Howland felt younger than the boy sometimes.

The day the storm cleared enough, Jojen announced: “The king is almost there. We have to go now, or we'll lose them.” Veremund raised her long neck and shuddered, eyes rolling.

Now, Winterfell was bursting with people. Snow fell in flakes and brought with it the smell of lightning. Oslo glided overhead. His body latched onto Howland's and gripped him. “I still don't know how to tell Ned about this,” Howland said casually.

Oslo's large eyes blinked. “No idea,” he replied blithely. “But Jojen saw the boy in his dreams. Believed it enough to make us come north for it.”

Howland scratched his chin. “If he's in the crannogs, at least he'll be out of sight until...whenever he's needed.”

“'If he dies, we all die',” Oslo repeated. “Trust that Rhaegar prick to actually be right about something, only he went and made a mess of it all anyway.” The bat looked down. “Poor Mirabell,” he said quietly.

Yes, poor Lyanna and Mirabell, gone too soon from the world that loved them so dearly.

“We'll talk to Ned. He'll listen,” Howland insisted.

“And bring Jojen. Ned follows the old ways; he'll believe him.”

Jojen and Veremund were trailing slowly through the training yard. His bright green clothing and short stature made him look like a child of the forest. He was staring up at a broken tower and he mouthed something that Howland didn't catch.

Meera and her daemon and the few other crannogmen that had accompanied them had announced themselves.

When he saw Ned, Howland thought he looked older than he should. Too long with too many secrets would do that to a good man like him, though. “Lord Stark.”

“Lord Reed,” Ned's greeting was formal, but warm. He smiled tremulously. “You've chosen a strange time to visit.”

“My condolences for the short notice, my Lord, and for Jon Arryn's death. I know what he meant to you.” Howland bowed. Oslo tilted his head down.

“While we are sorry to bother you, my Lord, we must speak with you. We made haste but the storm swelled the crannogs. We meant to come sooner,” Oslo said.

Frost tilted his head. “You've also brought your children?”

Howland's lips thinned. “Ned, we come bringing a warning.”

Ned stiffened and rocked back on his heels slowly. “Yes, the servants have set aside accommodations for your people. You brought fewer than I assumed.” He gestured to a servant who curtsied and led the crannogmen away. Meera and Jojen stayed. “Howland? Shall we speak in private?”

Howland jerked his head and Jojen and Meera came. “As private as we can, Ned. This is – it's a matter of life and death.”

“My Lord, if he stays here, he'll die,” Jojen said in lieu of a proper greeting. His crane daemon strode close to his side. Despite the severity of the situation, Howland withheld a groan at the carelessness of his son's words.

Ned's eyes widened and Frost took a step forward. “Who?” the wolf demanded.

“Jon Snow. There's death here, and death further north, more and more of it every day.”

 

 

 

**Bran & Summer**

  


They'd all ridden out early in the morning; his father, the king, Robb, Uncle Benjen, Theon, Jory, and even the Imp. It was to be the last hunt and the king wanted roast boar, or perhaps elk if it could be had.

“A roast of _us_!” Albar, the king's fat boar daemon had squealed in laughter. King Robert had laughed too, but Bran didn't understand why.

Father's friend, Lord Howland Reed, was of particular interest to Bran. Old Nan had all sorts of stories about the crannogmen and he wanted to see if any of them were right, or if they were just stories for babies like Rickon. Lord Reed was short, but he moved like a young man, and Bran liked his pronged spear. His bat daemon was enormous; he hadn't known bats could get so big. He had questions about the swamps, but Lord Reed had left with Father and the rest of the party. His children, a daughter named Meera and a son named Jojen, had stayed behind, but Bran couldn't find them anywhere. He'd wanted to get a closer look at their strange daemons too.

He was left without anyone to play with, except Summer. Sansa and Lady were embroidering and being good ladies, and Arya and Nymeria had vanished in a fit of temper at not being allowed to go on the hunt, Rickon and Shaggydog were having a nap somewhere, and Jon and Ghost had been angry for days so Bran didn't really want to play with them. He didn't know why Jon was so angry; he was going to take the black and be a brother of the Night's Watch, fending off giant spiders and wildlings and giants at the Wall. A knight in black.

And Bran certainly didn't want to go play with the royal children; Myrcella was nice enough, but she didn't have much of an imagination, and Tommen was scared of everything.

Bran wanted to play knights and ladies, but the best lady was Sansa, and she couldn't because she was with Septa Mordane. He hoped that after the crown prince and Sansa were married, he'd get to go to the Red Keep and be a part of the Kingsguard like Ryam Redwyne, and protect Sansa when she became queen.

But he couldn't really play knights and ladies anymore, not unless Rickon wanted to watch him play a game the way Jon and Robb did whenever he asked it of them. He'd seen king's justice, and he was almost a man now. He didn't feel like one. He'd seen his pony earlier and had fled because only boys had ponies, but now that he was going to be a man, he'd have a horse and he wasn't ready.

He didn't want to kill anyone the way Father had to.

Summer had led him away and he followed her into the godswood. Even with tears in his eyes, he didn't think he'd ever be able to lose sight of her. They avoided the heart tree. Faces shouldn't be on anything but people, especially not crying faces. It had given them nightmares when they'd been younger. He especially couldn't go to mother or father or Jon if he had a nightmare after seeing the heart tree again, now that he wasn't a boy anymore.

Bran stopped before a tree near the armory wall and began to climb up.

“Bran!” Summer yelled out. “Bran, Bran!”

He looked back down at her and held a finger to his lips. She fell silent, yellow eyes piercing through him.

“You aren't supposed to,” she explained slowly. “What if you fall? There's no one else here but me to watch you.”

“Mother's here. And I won't fall,” he insisted and kept climbing.

Summer followed his progress from the ground, but she stayed quiet.

He climbed the tree and leapt onto the roof of the armory, out of Summer's yellow sight. Winterfell was laid before him; he could see all the people and buildings. He saw everyone and everything they did in a way even Robb, the one who would be Lord of Winterfell after their father, wouldn't. It was a secret thing, something he treasured and kept for himself.

He didn't know why he enjoyed it so much, except maybe he liked seeing everything from above like this and no one ever saw him. It was like being a ghost. He'd lied to his mother before and once promised he wouldn't climb the walls and roofs again, but then he had and had confessed to his father. He'd ordered Bran to stay in the godswood and reflect on his crime, and Summer had similarly been punished alongside him.

But when Lord Eddard came to collect his son, they'd found Summer curled in the roots of a sentinel tree and Bran asleep in its upper branches. He'd been angry, but he'd still laughed. “You're not my son, you're a squirrel. So be it, if you must climb, then climb, but try not to let your mother see you,” he'd said.

“And you,” Frost had barked at Summer, “Are you a badger, to his squirrel, if you want to den beneath a tree?” he'd laughed.

But Bran's favorite place to climb was the broken tower. The watchtower had been struck by lightning and set ablaze, and when it collapsed, it had never been rebuilt. It was older than even Old Nan.

He swung from gargoyle to gargoyle. Even if the broken tower was broken and old, the stones were still steady.

He heard a woman speak, and then a man, and then the woman again. “...give me honorable enemies rather than ambitious ones, and I'll sleep more easily by night.”

More muttering, hissing whispers that Bran couldn't hear. He crept closer, holding onto the paw of a gargoyle tightly. “Never. I tell you, he means to move against us.”

Bran hugged one gargoyle, and stepped carefully on a wobbly bit of stone and he steadied himself. “...Lysa was not here to greet us with her accusations.”

A low rumble, like the sound of thunder far away. “Enough. Lysa Arryn is a frightened rat. She cowered away, she isn't a threat.”

A feminine voice snarled. “We are right to be worried; she has sequestered herself in the Eyrie away from us. She hasn't even given Tywin her son to foster. She is aware of the danger, and now that great oaf wants the honorable Lord Stark as his Hand?”

“Stark is a fool, an honorable fool, but one anyway.”

Bran held himself as still as he could and crept the overlooking stones that hung before the window where the voices came from.

“Lysa Arryn is sister to Stark's wife – do you truly think she wouldn't send her accusations to them? If Lord Stark is leaving the north to go south, then they _know_.”

The man sighed. “Come here, sister. Enough of this talk. There's other things we could be doing with our time.”

The rumble came again, with laughter. “Don't be so cold, Ariella.”

The woman snapped, “Stop that!” Bran heard the sound of someone being slapped. The woman's daemon snarled viciously. Whatever it was, it sounded big.

“This is no game!”

“This is all very tiresome. Come here and be quiet, sister.”

Bran hung himself upside down and looked into the window. A man and woman were wrestling, but they were naked. He couldn't see their faces. In the corner, a great lion held a lioness between his paws and his tongue rasped across her head, though she twisted half-heartedly in his grip.

The woman moaned. “Stop, stop that, no please.” She wasn't trying to get away. Her hair, golden and shining, fell to reveal her face, and Bran recognized the queen. She looked up and saw him, and she screamed. The lioness hissed.

Bran scrambled away too quickly, and his hand missed the gargoyle he'd been aiming for to pull himself up, and suddenly he was falling. He managed to grab hold of the ledge and clung to it, his arm shaking with the effort.

The queen's face appeared out the window, and so did the man's; Jaime Lannister, her twin.

“He saw us!” she shouted.

“So he did,” the man said. He reached down and plucked Bran up by his jerkin. “There we are. How'd you get up here?” The golden lion behind him blinked lazily.

“I – I climbed,” Bran stammered.

“What are you doing?” the queen demanded.

“Climbed,” Jaime Lannister repeated, impressed. He ignored the queen.

“Quite the accomplished climber,” the lion said. His tail flicked.

The lioness was on her feet, large head butting the queen's hip. Her lips had pulled back to reveal long teeth. “He saw.”

“How old are you, boy?” He was still holding Bran up with his right hand. He was very strong, and Bran let go of his arm sheepishly after realizing he'd gripped it tightly enough to dig in nail marks.

“Ten, almost eleven,” Bran said quietly.

“Ten, almost eleven,” the man mused. He looked at the queen and her lioness. “The things I do for love.”

And then he shoved Bran away, off the ledge.

And Bran fell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always headcanoned Dominic Monaghan as Howland Reed, personally. 
> 
> Typical asoiaf warnings apply to the whole fic in general, although things are being changed. Just you know, general unpleasantness exists and will continue to exist here too.


	3. chapter two

**Tyrion & Lotho**

  
  


Lotho didn't even lift his head at the noise anymore. “Poor creature,” he lamented. He lounged atop a heavy table, surrounded on all sides by shelves of books and scrolls. The musty, papery scent of the library filled the air and was a pleasant note alongside the wine Tyrion had snuck in and was carefully sipping from, ever alert to not spill any on the aging parchment.

Tyrion read through the scroll slowly and thoroughly. “Poor boy,” he returned.

Lotho shifted his mighty weight before he shook out his black mane. “I admire the tenacity though. To take a fall like that and not die is quite the feat.”

“If the gods are still waiting to decide whether or not he lives, I do hope they take that into account. There is something to be said for that much determination.” Tyrion set the scroll aside and climbed down from the chair. Lotho stretched and his claws unsheathed briefly.

The black maned lion nudged the snoring septon awake and Tyrion told him to care for the scrolls gently. They made their way to the Great Hall to sit with the rest of the family and for a good meal. It was mostly empty, but for his brother and sister and her children, a few select servants anticipating the needs of their guests. Tyrion suspected that Starks rose before dawn, and woke the sun itself so it might stop being so lazy.

He sat down beside Tommen and Myrcella, giving his good mornings to all, and requested a hearty breakfast for himself, and a plate of meat and bone for Lotho.

Lotho nudged the children's daemons, Bethany and Ser Pounce, affectionately. They climbed over his back and played in his mane, biting with their tiny kitten teeth. He let loose a playful yowl as though they had truly wounded him. Tyrion smiled at the sight, and winked at the children, whom broke out in a fit of giggles.

“And where were you, this fine morning, while the rest of us were kept awake by that dog?” Jaime asked. He chewed on a fatty piece of bacon.

Lotho crunched loudly on a bone. “The library. The Starks keep remarkable records. Very old.”

Tyrion bit into his fish. “And it's a wolf, not a dog. The Starks are very particular about that distinction. Besides, there is good news to be had; the maester believes the boy will live.”

Cersei stopped in the middle of reaching for her goblet. His siblings shared a glance and Tyrion watched carefully. Lotho, he noticed, kept an eye on Ariella and George similarly.

His sister's lioness licked her lips. “Do they know when he'll wake?”

Tyrion shrugged. “It's in the hands of the gods. Northern or southron, though, who can say.”

Cersei folded her hands in her lap and regarded her own children. “It is cruel to let the boy linger on like that. May the gods be merciful.”

 _Ah yes, better to be dead and gone rather than a cripple or a dwarf_ , Tyrion thought sardonically. He slurped at his dark beer. The heavy foam dripped from his upper lip like a mustache.

“Where is our good Joffrey?” Lotho spat out a sharp shard of bone. They were of similar mind; perhaps his nephew had had something to do with the boy's fall. He had ridden away from the hunting party for some time, he and his loyal Hound.

“In the yard, fencing. He's doing a rather bad job of keeping up with the Stark's eldest.” Jaime stretched out over his chair and popped a sour grape into his mouth.

Cersei squeezed her lips together and the pucker reminded Tyrion of an arse. “He is trying not to embarrass the boy. He's still grieving for his brother.”

“The brother who isn't dead and probably won't die,” Tyrion pointed out. Cersei slanted a dark look his way. He grinned back.

“And Joffrey was never so keen with a blade when someone was actually fighting back,” Lotho remarked.

Ariella snarled at him.

“At any rate, when will you all be departing for the kingsroad?” Tyrion gestured a servant closer. “More bacon.” He saw Lotho's plate was empty of meat. “For both of us.”

“Not soon enough,” Cersei lamented. She frowned and Ariella cocked her head at them. “ _You all_? Where are you going, then?”

“I heard that Ned Stark's bastard means to take the black. I want to go to the Wall and piss off the edge of the world.” He flung his arms open wide. Myrcella giggled. Tommen gawped.

Ariella showed her teeth. “Not in front of the children, you wretch.”

George laughed and he shook his golden mane. “I can't imagine you'd take the black.”

“I didn't know Ned Stark's bastard was taking the black,” Jaime said over the rim of his cup.

Tyrion shrugged. “He might be, but who knows. Or, he might go to the crannogs to squire for Howland Reed now that he's here.”

Jaime's face pinched and then he threw back his head and laughed.

  
  


**Howland & Oslo**

  
  


Howland laid a seed pod, taken carefully from a blooming tree in the crannogs, into her outstretched palm. Lyanna's stone hand didn't curl over it, and she didn't thank him with her stone mouth.

Oslo stretched a great leathery wingtip to touch Mirabell's face. “Hello, our Laughing Knight. We're sorry we stayed away for so long. We brought you a gift. It's a seed pod taken from a sorrowing tree. The pods break open and the pollen and tiny seeds are carried away by the wind.” Oslo's wing stretched open more as he used his fingers to gesture. “They're such tiny things, Mirabell, and weightless, so the wind carries them to distant places. And then they grow to towering giants with velvety leaves that can used for medicine, bark that can be stripped for cloth, and flowers that smell like honey.”

Oslo and Howland stood there, awaiting judgment and joy that would never come.

“Why is it called a sorrowing tree?” Frost's voice was low, the words slow.

“The story behind it is that a highborn woman fled an uncaring husband, but he hunted her down, and she chose to chance the crannogs. She became stuck in the mud, but rather than wait for her husband to come for her, she wept until the old gods answered her. They made her into a tree, as beautiful as she was as a woman, so she would never need a husband again.”

Frost gave a troubled grumble and pawed at his ear anxiously.

“What manner of luck has befallen my House?” Ned muttered at his side.

Howland tilted his head to show he was listening to his dearest friend, although he hadn't taken his eyes off of Lyanna's statue.

“We'll take the boy with us, Ned,” he reassured him. “We'll even freeze our toes off and go to the Wall he wants to see so he can judge the Night's Watch for himself. He might think of them as the knights in black now, but if he saw...”

“That is, assuming you believe our Jojen,” Oslo added. His ears rotated as he picked up the noises from above.

After Jojen and Veremund had delivered their dire prophecy, Ned had asked his questions calmly but Frost had betrayed his feelings by pacing sharply with his ears laid flat. “If your prophecy says that Robert might see through him, then why would he go further south, closer to the crown? The Night's Watch, Benjen said Jon would be welcomed there but he was reluctant because it's an oath for life -”

“No. Death is there. It is cold and dark and it sees him,” Veremund had intoned. Her long neck shivered and she flapped her wings. “A doom of his own making, because he loves so much. Blades he sharpened in the light come back to him in the dark.”

Frost had stared at the crane as if he meant to shake her in his jaws and demand more.

“If he goes north to stay, he'll die, and he cannot stay here. The mire hides more secrets than Jon Snow has. It won't mind hiding one more,” Jojen had said.

“Ned. You trusted me with the boy before. You can trust me again. Surely even a squire for a frog lord is better than a lifetime with the Watch?”

Ned hadn't smiled, but he indicated that he would consider what was brought before him.

Days had passed since that brief, fraught confrontation over the boy and Jojen's dreams, but Ned hadn't reached out to him beyond that. Oslo reasoned it was possibly because green dreams were ominous, and magic itself was an entity that held its own reasons for what it did. That, and Ned was afraid for the last shred of Lyanna.

Then Bran Stark fell. Fell right off the broken tower Jojen and Veremund had stared at, had circled, and mouthed words no one else could hear. It prickled his scalp, this knowledge that his son held and withheld. He dared not tell Ned that Jojen might've foreseen Bran's fall, and kept it secret for one reason or another.

With the boy in a deathless sleep, Howland had asked permission to go to the crypts to visit Lyanna and bring her a gift. A favor for his knight.

So here they stood, with he and Oslo captivated even though she had been gone for so long, Ned and Frost afraid and resigned to the strange, unfair fate awaiting Jon Snow.

Ned scrubbed his beard with his hand and gave Howland a long look. His dark grey eyes caught the torchlight and held it. “Even after telling me he'd die further north, you'd take him to the Wall?” he asked skeptically.

Howland glanced at the taller man. “Just so he knows what's actually there. From the sound of it, he thinks there's honor waiting for him there, instead of rapers and murderers and thieves.” He smiled a little, fond. “He wants the kind of honor you only find in stories.” Like Lyanna. For all her willfulness, she'd still loved songs and stories, and desired that life bend to her nature and will rather than the other way around.

“He won't regret leaving it behind if he's disillusioned. We won't be there for long. If he went there for the purpose of taking the black, do you think he'd stay?” Oslo asked.

Frost snorted. “He might. He's nearly a man grown but sometimes...he still acts like a boy. He'd stay, if he took the oath. If he didn't...no. No I don't think he'd want to.”

Ned was stiff, lost in thought. It must be hard to even think of letting the boy out of his sight when he was so vulnerable. “Howland. You'd watch over him for me, while I'm in the south?” Ned's brows furrowed.

“Of course, Ned. I was there at the Tower, too.”

Lyanna dying in her own blood and Mirabell slowly vanishing into golden dust with winter roses scattered around them. Gods, he'd had nightmares of that for years.

“I'll tell him myself.” Ned nodded with the self assurance of a properly contrite man going to an executioner's block.

“What about Lyanna, Ned? Will you tell him about her?” Howland asked. He turned to follow him.

“When he's older, after I come back from the south,” his old friend said with only half a smile.

Howland and Oslo fell silent, though the bat clutched Howland tighter.

“You should spend time with your old friend, father. You will not see him again,” Jojen had told him when Ned had extended an offer to accompany the king on a hunt. Howland would have asked his son for more had the statement not been so chillingly final. Sometimes, some things were best kept away from the mind.

  
  


**Sansa & Lady**

  
  


Her room were nearly entirely packed up; her dresses, slippers and shoes, ornaments and her favorite sewing needles, her favorite books, and a small harp crafted with her House's sigil. There were still things that remained; old lesson books, a crystal globe fashioned to trick those looking in the center that a school of fish swam within; it had been a present given to her from her grandfather Hoster Tully which pained Sansa to leave behind but it was entirely too fragile to take with her, and rolls of wool cloth she wouldn't need. It was much warmer south and there was no snow there.

Lady's head perked up again at sound of another howl. She whimpered softly at Sansa's feet. “She won't stop howling.”

Sansa stopped stitching. Her hands clutched her nearly finished gift. She stared out the window into the grey morning, clouded and swollen with the promise of rain. “Lady, what if he doesn't wake up?”

Lady turned to lay her head in Sansa's lap and pushed her nose into the detailed handkerchief she was still working on. Direwolves circled a full moon and weirwood leaves curled at the edges. “He has to. He has to; Bran never fell before. He won't die.” 

When they'd all been much younger, and Rickon had been just a little baby, Bran would climb the tallest trees without fear. When she promised to sing him a song, he'd go off to pluck flowers from the top. He used to come down with a fistful and give her that smile he was so known for. Bran, out of all her siblings, indulged her the most in her love of stories. He liked Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys, Jenny of Oldstones, knights and heroes the same as she did. 

If Arya had Jon, Sansa had always had Bran. 

Robb might've played the king or hero when they'd been younger, but he preferred battles and war to love and tragedy. He'd never quite had the patience for Sansa's daydreaming the way Bran had. Jon at least had been kinder about it. Robb and Theon would just make fun of her until she and Bran would go off on their own. 

Then her figure changed and she was closer to womanhood than girlhood, and Rickon got older, and they didn't play as much as they'd used to. 

The ache for her little brother grew and she clasped a hand to her chest. They would never play as they once had again, and her eyes welled with tears. 

In the distance, Summer howled again. It was like the bells in King's Landing, ringing to announce the death of a king. But Bran wouldn't die, not from a fall, no matter how high he'd been.

Sansa's fingers twisted in Lady's light grey and cream colored fur. “It feels wrong to leave them.”

Her wolf nodded. A crinkle of worry bunched her brow. “But the king commands it of us. Even Lord Eddard and Frost have to leave.”

Sansa bent over and let her tears fall into her wolf's thick fur. “Mother hasn't left his side. She looks ill, too.”

The septa had left Sansa alone in her room earlier, to allow her time to grieve, although she still gave her assignments to keep her busy in meantime. “Times like these, an idle mind will stew in grief without any end,” Septa Mordane had said, and laid out a book, a column of numbers, and a length of cloth for her to work on. Sansa had wanted to snap at the older woman that she didn't care about practicing her numbers, and that she wished to not leave her brother's side until he woke up again, but Lady's paw had hushed her and together, they cloistered themselves in Sansa's rooms as though they were preparing to leave for the Silent Sisters and not ride south with the king and queen.

“Shall we go visit them again?” Lady offered.

They would leave soon and Sansa's heart broke at the thought of leaving her little brother behind while he remained but a doll in his own bed. Someone shouldn't be so still, especially so when it was someone like Bran who was made of life and laughter. She nodded and Lady stood with her. She took her gift and needle and thread with her; she could finish it at his bedside.

The guard posted outside Bran's room bowed his head and allowed her entry.

Her mother was washing his skinny arms with a damp cloth when Sansa entered. It was frightening to see Bran in bed, smaller than he should be, pale and still as death. Her mother's eyes were as red as her hair, but she had no other color in her face.

She looked up and didn't seem to see Sansa at all. Bell was curled alongside Bran's shoulder and her face was in his neck. The otter daemon didn't chatter a greeting.

Summer was laying on his legs. His useless legs. He'd never climb again or play a knight again. She should have sought him out that day, when he'd been bored after everyone else had ridden off for the hunt, and played ladies and knights with him, but she'd wanted to sit with the princess. She wanted to do her duty as a lady, as she was meant to. Her eyes welled with tears and she bit her lip to keep from crying. Lady whined.

Sansa moved to sit on the chair beside his bed. She touched his hair. It was oily.

“Sing a song for him, love. He loves your songs,” her mother finally said. Her dark fire hair was tangled and it fell limply across her wan face, and although Sansa had always been praised to be the very image of her mother, she saw little of herself in the haunted woman she had become.

“I don't know which he'd like to hear.” Sansa brushed his hair back from his forehead. He wouldn't be able to play Ryam Redwyne ever again. She'd imagined that once she was queen, Bran would go south and become a knight in the Kingsguard, like Queen Cersei and Ser Jaime. But it wasn't to be. It wasn't fair; where was Bran's song? His story? He wouldn't ever go in the White Book as he'd always dreamed of.

“Any, any of them.” Her mother had never been so exhausted, so grey.

Sansa sang “The Night That Ended” beautifully, but it didn't make Bran open his eyes like it would have in a story. It only made Summer howl.

  
  


**Catelyn & Bell**

  
  


Catelyn folded the handkerchief Sansa had sewn for Bran. She'd folded and unfolded it three times already. She lay it down and gathered a small washcloth, damp with fresh water, and patted Bran's face.

Summer hadn't spoken since he'd fallen. She barely ate or drank or slept, and refused to leave him alone for more than a few minutes at a time.

It frightened Bell. The otter scurried to Summer and cleaned her face, and shoved away the small tray of meat that she hadn't touched. Her webbed paws stroked Summer's brow, her ears.

Cat washed Bran's legs. “He's just wasting away,” she rasped. “My poor boy. My poor, sweet boy. Gods be good, please just wake up for me.” She looked down at Bran, and then at Summer. “Why won't she speak?”

Bell put a little paw on Summer's cheek and touched her nose with her own. “I don't know, Cat. Why wasn't anyone watching him?”

Cat's lips thinned. “We serve at the pleasure of the queen and her company.” Which meant that while Ned had gone off on a hunt with the king and the men, she'd been poring over a ledger and listening to more singers audition for another feast, as the queen requested before she'd gone off on a walk with her twin.

“And the boy?” the otter pressed. “He should have been with Bran. And Arya and Rickon. He should have at least made himself useful and stayed with the little ones! Where, where was he?”

Cat's lips thinned. “Sulking that he couldn't join the rest of them.”

Was it wrong to blame him?

Neither Cat nor Bell dwelt on it, because while her dislike had dissipated in light of certain truths, he was still an open wound and he always would be. To say nothing of the very real danger he put their household in while he lived amongst them, and now, after all the time he'd hid from that infamous Baratheon anger under a false identity, the boy hadn't even watched over the cousins he called siblings properly.

A knock came at the door, and when she called out, it was the boy.

He entered slowly with his head turned down shamefully. His daemon slunk low. “I came to say goodbye to Bran.”

Woman and otter remained still. “Say it, and leave.” Cat didn't know if she'd spoken, or if Bell had.

The boy bent over Bran's body and he laid a kiss on his forehead.

“Get out. You've said it, now get out.” The otter chattered angrily for a moment. He hesitated for but a moment, and it was enough for Catelyn and Bell to lose their tenuous grip on their pain and grief. It became a weapon. “Where were you? Where were you when he fell?” Bell accused. They were unmoored, unleashed.

The boy's mouth opened, but no sound came out. He was as mute as his daemon.

“You've lived in the walls of my home, ate at my table, learned from a maester, slept in a featherbed, and you couldn't even watch him.” Cat's eyes lifted from Bran to the boy and felt that old loathing creep up. She felt it in her breast like an animal eating her from within. “Because you'd gone off to sulk about being a bastard, when I've known no other bastards but you to be brought up in a lord's castle.”

He swallowed.

“Get out,” Bell hissed, showing her tiny teeth. “Leave.”

They left, and Cat wept over Bran again, gripping the handkerchief.

  
  


**Robb & Grey Wind**

  
  


He'd made temporary use of his father's office in the name of preparing to take over the lord's duties and it felt false. As though he were a boy of seven again trying to fit his father's heavy cloak across his shoulders. He didn't feel like a lord. He didn't feel ready for this, but yet there was little choice in the matter for anyone.

“He'd promised Mother he wouldn't go climbing.” Robb rubbed his eyes with both hands. His eyes were already straining staring at the book of accounts as long as he had been. He would have invited Jon to sit in with him while he went over the expenses hosting the royal family had cost Winterfell, for he was better at numbers than he was, but he didn't want to stoke any of his mother's ire at this time. It didn't matter anyway; Jon had already gone with Uncle Benjen to take the black just that morning. It was all Jon had talked about for weeks. He'd gripped him like he might lose him before he'd left. Robb supposed that that was true. It felt like a final goodbye.

He itched the sprout of fuzz that had taken root on his chin and jaw in the last year.

Grey Wind paced the room. “He always promised, and he lied, and he went climbing again. Lord Eddard punished him before, remember?”

Robb let a smile crack. “And he fell asleep in the tree.”

Grey Wind laughed but it was quick to die. “He'll wake up. If he wasn't going to, Summer wouldn't be crying. She'd already be dust.”

Robb twirled the quill between his fingers. “He could still die.”

Quellon hopped down from his perch and tapped his beak on the inkhorn at Robb's elbow. “You Starks are hard to kill,” the gannet daemon comforted. His webbed feet squeaked on the heavy oak desk. “He won't die from a fall.”

“He'll never walk again. Maester Luwin and Ferth say he'll always be a cripple. He broke his back,” Grey Wind said bluntly. His dark gold eyes trained on Quellon. “And where was everyone when he was climbing on that bloody tower? Nowhere useful.”

Robb rubbed his brow. “I should've been harder on him whenever I caught him.”

“He enjoyed it too much. Summer too. They liked climbing and exploring,” the wolf muttered.

“And what were you supposed to do? Bran did what he wanted, even Lord Stark couldn't stop him. What, were you going to tie him to you with a leash, jerking him away when he tried to go off on his own?” Theon challenged. Quellon flapped to his shoulder. One pale eye turned to Robb.

Robb's hands went down on the desk with a slam and Grey Wind rumbled. “It would've been better! Mother's a ghost, father and the girls are leaving for the south, and even if Bran wakes up he will never walk, never father his own sons. Meanwhile Rickon is crying and following me or Maester Luwin everywhere because he's confused and father's busy with arrangements and mother doesn't even see him!”

Theon didn't flinch, just strolled closer and sat down in front of the desk, folding his hands over his knees. “Robb. You aren't here alone, you know that, don't you, you daft Stark? If you need help, then ask me. Tell me what you need, and we'll get it done. Lady Stark won't be herself for a time. It's why Lord Stark asked us to take care of Winterfell.”

“He asked me, not you,” Robb said. “And there's a lot to do.” He rubbed his face with both hands. He had to do this, had to show father that while mother wasn't herself, Winterfell would still be taken care of. He couldn't just fail at this.

Quellon squawked. “Are we fish bait? We said we'd help anyway.”

Grey Wind looked up at the seabird. “Maester Luwin said we need to look for a master of horse, and a steward.”

Theon clapped his hands. “Alright. Shall I go find them?”

“You aren't the Lord of Winterfell,” Robb reminded him thinly.

“I know that. I'm acting on his behalf while he goes over the accounts. I'll go find some candidates with the maester, let Rickon tag along, and we'll bring whoever's best to you, alright?” Theon ran a hand through his hair and grinned. “I promise not to take too long with the girls while I'm out.”

Robb hesitated but then nodded. “Alright.”

Theon dropped a hand on his shoulder. “You're my brother, Robb. Not by blood or name, but I chose you as my brother.”

“Like Lord Stark and the king,” Quellon added. “But I shudder to think of any of us getting _that_ fat.”

Robb's smile was slow to come, but he gripped Theon's forearm fiercely.

  
  


**Jon**

 

 

 

They'd only been on the road for two days, but Jon ached from so much riding. He'd felt like he'd aged forty years when they stopped to make camp the first day. 

While Jon hadn't agreed with Lord Stark's refusal to allow him to join the Night's Watch and would instead have him be a squire for Lord Reed in the crannogs, and had even shouted at his father for it, he couldn't say he'd been wrong in his estimation of the men of the Watch. Yoren was filthy, smelled like piss, and scratched like he had lice. His ram daemon's wool was matted, and his horns were twisted. His charges were lowborn criminals; two rapers and a murderer. 

They were nothing like Uncle Benjen, who'd only told Jon that they were to become brothers of the Night's Watch.

Tyrion Lannister was oddly the companion that spoke most often with Jon, despite Uncle Benjen's presence, and Lord Reed's insistence that Jon at least see Castle Black and the Wall for himself.

Tyrion was often reading one of the many volumes he'd carefully packed away and borrowed from Winterfell's selection. He'd made it clear to Jon why he read so much, why he cared so much for history. Jon couldn't help but admire that outlook. A sharp mind was a weapon too, he'd said. Half of the time Tyrion spoke to him, Jon didn't mind, while the rest of the time, he just wished he'd leave him alone.

Lotho seemed endlessly amused and fascinated by Ghost. “A serpent? A horned toad? An iguana, perhaps. I've heard they're common in parts of Lys.” He was guessing at what Jon's mother's daemon may have been, using the slight traits Ghost still flickered through uncertainly.

Tyrion rested an elbow on his daemon's back. “What say you, bastard? An iguana from Lys? A toad from the Riverlands? A trouser snake from King's Landing?”

Jon clenched his fist and Ghost's lips peeled back to reveal his teeth. Lotho didn't bother showing his teeth or claws off; he outweighed Ghost twice over easily.

“There's no need to be sullen about not knowing where your mother is from. Do you truly have no guesses of your own? Or is it that I keep calling you a bastard?” Tyrion asked.

Truthfully, it was both the subject of his mother and the Imp calling him a bastard that angered Jon. He and Ghost often dreamt she was a highborn lady who sang sweetly, wrapped in crushed velvet and silk, and that she was beautiful and kind, and perhaps that love and affection had made his father turn to her. He'd imagined her daemon had been something exotic, like a fan-throated lizard, or a spiral-tailed snake. Something that would have enchanted Frost. It was a gentler idea than the reality that his mother had likely been a whore or camp follower.

Even if she was, though, if Lord Stark would tell him who she was, where she was, Jon would go to her. They could live together and when she grew old, he'd take care of her.

“I have a name,” Jon insisted. “I realize that being the one doing the most talking for us, you might've overlooked it, my Lord, but it's Jon.”

Lotho threw his head back and laughed. “Oh Tyrion I _like_ him.” Tyrion smiled wryly and lifted his wineskin.

“Well done, Jon Snow.” The Imp waddled over to a small pot, took a sip of the stew and grimaced. “Do you think that's squirrel in here, Lotho?”

Lotho unsheathed his claws and considered them wearily. “I imagine so, perhaps with some rat.”

“The proper food of the Watch.” Tyrion came back with a hunk of hard cheese in hand. “I suppose you're still joining? I would imagine this delightful trip filled with your future brothers is very exciting.”

Jon hunched his shoulders and turned from him. “Lord Stark forbade me from taking the black.”

The Imp chewed loudly. “If you are setting off to be your own man, far away from the castle you will never be lord of, might I ask why you are heeding Lord Stark's demand? You can't have anything of his, and you are nearly a man grown. I'm curious.”

Jon had thought the same while they rode north to Castle Black. He hadn't mentioned it to Lord Reed who'd mostly kept his distance from him, spoke sparingly with Tyrion, but held long conversations with Uncle Benjen and Yoren.

Yoren had been an unpleasant surprise, but he was only one man and Jon had thought it might be a fluke. Then came his charges, and Jon felt his desire to become a brother of the Night's Watch dwindle.

“I still might,” Jon boasted. He didn't want to feel like a boy in front of Tyrion, especially now that he was far from Winterfell and away from Lord Stark. “Whether I take the black or swear a knight's vows, I'm still taking an oath.”

Tyrion's smile was lopsided and his squashed face made it all the more hideous. “One to freeze at the Wall with condemned men, and the other to kill children if you're commanded to.”

“I would never do that,” Jon snapped. It was unthinkable. He wasn't a monster, a butcher, no matter who he might one day call his lord. 

The Imp shrugged. “You wouldn't. Jon Snow, the good bastard boy of Lord Stark wouldn't. But you might one day be Ser Jon. My brother is still a knight, although he stabbed the king he swore himself to in the back. Or maybe you'll be Jon Snow, sworn brother to the rapers and murderers of the Watch, staring at a great big wall of ice and on the lookout for grumkins.”

“Stop it!” Jon lashed out. The tendons in his neck protruded in response to the flush of his temper. 

“Your choices and possibilities in life are decidedly depressing, Jon Snow,” Lotho said with a small amount of pity.

“And what would you suggest? Become a lord on my own somehow, attract bannermen to my cause as the bastard who started a new House?” he asked bitingly. The Imp was intelligent and could make for good conversation, but he grated on him more often than not. Often it was because he spoke like he was the smartest man he'd ever known, and everyone else had missed a joke only he understood.

“You could, but that's not very Stark-like of you. Very Blackfyre. I would suggest you consider the worst possibilities of both options before you, and discover for yourself which would be harder to swallow before you make a decision you can't take back.” Tyrion wiped his hands on his fine doublet and toddled off in search of mulled wine.

Lotho followed his counterpart. “You may find that both are equally terrible. If that should happen, flip a coin and let the gods decide.”

Jon and Ghost watched them leave. Jon put his hand in Ghost's fur and pricked himself on a spine that had grown out of Ghost's neck. The white wolf leaned against him and the flexible, prickly spines that jutted out from his fur caught on his sleeves.

Howland Reed and his enormous bat daemon observed them from their place at another fire. He didn't smile or otherwise acknowledge that Jon had caught him. The bat, with his large eyes, stared intently at them.

Jon sat up straighter since this was the lord he was meant to squire for, but Lord Reed finally dropped his eyes to the fire.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess at this point I should mention I have a list of characters and their corresponding daemons, and will probably pull that list out once we get "out in the wilderness", so to speak.


End file.
